


Pound of Flesh

by Kitty (Katatafish)



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: 80s AU, 90s AU, Blackmail, Blood, Blood and Injury, Consensual Underage Sex, Debt, Drug Use, Espionage, Extortion, Gun Violence, Hacking, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Mirror Sex, Misgendering, Money, Multi, Organized Crime, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Past Rape/Non-con, Poker, Repaying Debt, Sex, Trans, Trans America (Hetalia), Underage Drinking, Underage Sex, Undercover, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-21
Updated: 2019-05-21
Packaged: 2020-03-09 02:04:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18907270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Katatafish/pseuds/Kitty
Summary: Arthur is on his last job after seven years of working under Francis' command, using any technique necessary to collect and return the money his boss has loaned out. With two rookies to teach and a burgeoning barbiturate habit to balance, he's not up to his usual standard. This is made all too clear when he begins to have unfamiliar feelings about who is to be his last customer.





	Pound of Flesh

Arthur’s knuckles still haven’t stopped bleeding.

 

The skin around the slices has turned brown and crusty, but a deep ruby still oozes from inside them. Every so often he’ll tug at the scabs, peeling away clots and squeezing the sides of each finger to make the blood come out faster. His lips twitch, nose snuffling out of nothing but boredom, and he can feel the dried trail of crimson there too. The white of his rizla has become stained with that oh so familiar colour, as his fingertips soon will be as the cigarette burns down to the filter. He’s managed to stop the blood from pooling on the ground beneath him, cradling his skeletal hands in his lap when he’s not holding the fag up to his mouth, or his thumb up to his nostril to stem the flow. He can still taste the iron on his tongue. First from the punch to the side of his mouth, and the split in the side of his tongue from where he’s caught it between his teeth. Secondly, from the imprints his fingers had left on two little blue and red pills placed on his tongue and swallowed dry, shortly after he had sunk into a plastic padded chair.

 

What he doesn’t collect in the cup of his palms drips down to stain the white converse of his shoes. The laces were already stiff from being soaked. Ruby droplets settle on the rubber toe, which had been wiped clean with a half-dried baby wipe only hours ago. His gaze settles on the floor. He stares at the linoleum between clumped strands of dirty blond hair hanging over his glistening forehead. Grey, naturally, and speckled with mysterious stains long since trodden into the surface. Although, it’s not as if anyone had ever bothered attempting to clean it, as far as Arthur’s experience goes.

 

The laundrette is open twenty four hours, seven days a week, and has been unmanned on the majority of occasions Arthur has visited. He’d certainly consider himself a regular. As would all the patrons who come and go, with the Englishman sat in the same chair under the flickering pink neon ‘Open’ sign every time, or so he supposes. It holds all the hallmarks of a typical laundrette: piles of lint on the floor, abandoned socks, lost pairs of used underwear in need of a wash. Soon enough one of the homeless folk will wander in from the street and collect them up, scooping out every forgotten quarter as they go. Arthur’s seen them selling the stolen lingerie on the vagabond’s version of a farmer’s market, three dollars a piece- less if you buy more than one pair. Homeless people need to get off too, he thinks, and they’re certainly cheaper than even the most diseased of skid row street whores. It makes a change from porno magazines stashed away in bushes, with all the best pages already glued together. He’ll be on the hunt for a new line of work soon enough. He stashes the thought at the back of his mind.

 

Upon further consideration, his blood is not the worst thing that could drop onto the floor. He’s not even infected with anything, as far as he’s aware.

 

Strips of blue light hang above his head, the hum meant to drive his sort away long since deeply ingrained within his flesh. He’s found himself with the quintessential headache, of course, it wouldn’t be the same experience without one. But they don’t bother him in the way they used to. He doesn’t have to worry about the rhythmic thump of wet clothes against metal drums. The majority of the machines have been broken long enough that the business’s patrons have long since learned which few are still in operation, with no ‘Out of Order’ signs to rely on. There’s a radio behind the empty counter that’s been playing for years, the constant replacement of batteries being the only sign that people are in fact paid to work this place. And that’s a generous assumption. There’s no reason why it couldn’t have been someone wanting nothing more than cleaner clothes and to not have to listen to two hours worth of static. A noble deed, if that is indeed the case, but the audio fuzz lingers anyway.

Over the years, Arthur has heard all sorts playing on that radio. Duke Ellington, Culture Club, Anita Ward, and Mozart. It retunes itself with rare frequency, switching stations when one goes bankrupt and closes down, then when another pops up to fill its place. Once upon a time it had provided the soundtrack for the rolling news channel playing on the television mounted up in the corner. That had been before someone had taken a baseball bat to the screen, leaving it an empty shell which unlike the batteries, has yet to have been replaced. In an odd turn of events, Arthur was not there to witness the assault, and he’s found himself to be less aware of current events ever since. In this moment, the radio seems to be playing an odd mix of banjo and fiddle, the type not often heard in the underbelly of these streets. He won’t say it’s a particularly pleasant change, but he’s tired, and in no mood to be strongly aggrieved by it.

 

He’s not sure how long he’s been sat there. Watches are a hazard in his role, though it’s not like he could afford one of any significant quality. There’s no clock on the laundrette wall, but it hardly attracts the sort of audience with any care for the minutes of life quickly passing by them. When he arrived, the sun was not long past setting. Now he can see the sky getting lighter. Not by any considerable margin- it is still undeniably black. But it’s the sort of black tinged with the yellows, purples, and blues of an impending sunrise. The air has started to warm slightly, blowing in through the door held ajar by a concrete breezeblock wedged in between it and the frame. He can feel it tickling his bare chest, his grey t-shirt currently warming through in the clothes dryer, but his back covered with the leather jacket which had somehow, miraculously, escaped the massacre. He hadn’t brought a spare. In his experience, a quick cycle with plenty of hydrogen peroxide tipped into the machine is plenty enough to bring his clothes back to a state in which he could wear them to walk home in, and not get arrested. However, in his experiences, he’s usually wearing black. When he removed the soaked cotton from its wash, it had still been spotted all over with blood as if he were some kind of morbid dalmation, but he knew a second time through would do nothing to save it. Besides, he had never had any intention of waiting there longer than necessary.

 

When it’s dry and warm, he’ll drop his jacket onto the chair beside him, and pull the t-shirt over his head. He’ll tug the jacket back on, and dig through the pockets to find his last remaining pre-rolled cig and temperamental lighter. Then he’ll stagger to the nearest public toilet, his feet sluggish and unsure on broken concrete, his head swimming. If he’s lucky- and he often isn’t- he’ll have found a stray dollar in his jacket pocket looking for the tobacco. With that, he’ll buy himself a diet coke, the key to the toilets in the McDonald’s down the street. If not, he’ll have to put up with the dime turnstiles in the bus station. There he’ll step over some poor smack head as if he’s any better than them, and finally, _finally_ , wash the cracked blood from his skin.

 

Or at least that’s what he would do, if he didn’t hear the tired ring of the bell over the door behind him. He would wish that he didn’t know instantly who was pushing open the boarded up metal, but he’s recently stopped believing in wishes. The sound sickens him, lacquered leather squeaking as if to break the nonexistent silence, the footsteps no less confident for the unfamiliar territory. The gentle, lulling hum, not to the same song as the radio- something French, most likely. Certainly nothing so uncouth as whistling. Arthur can hear a set of car keys rattling in a silk pocket, but his tired heart can’t bear the thought of jumping at the idea that he might not have to walk all the way back to his motel room. The man sits beside him. A flash of blond hair far more golden than Arthur’s own lingers in the corner of the Englishman’s eye.

 

“I was sure that I’d find you here,” the newcomer purrs. Arthur’s skin bristles, goosebumps joining freckles to climb up his arms despite being covered in worn-out leather.

 

“You knew I was on a job,” the Briton bites back, “And you know that jobs get messy. Where else would I be?”

 

“In your suite? I’m sure there are washing facilities there.”

 

“There aren’t.”

 

“Then what am I paying for?”

 

Arthur shrugs. Blue eyes scan him from head to toe and back again, but he keeps his gaze trained steady and forward on the wall behind the counter, even as his eyelids begin to droop slightly.

 

“You took longer than usual,” the Frenchman hums.

 

“He knew I was coming- he was prepared. Got two guys to flank him,” Arthur explains in response.

 

“But did I get my money back?”

 

“My right pocket.”

 

He feels a sly hand snake behind his back, tracing a swirling line which penetrates through the leather, only centimetres away from having Arthur arching at the sensation. He doesn’t allow it- nor does he do anything to stop it. That hand could shoot up to the back of his neck in seconds, and he’d be doing more than arching. It finds his pocket in far more time than it should have taken, gently circling Arthur’s hip bone from the other side of the fabric, before pulling free a dense roll of fifty dollar bills, each of them fresh and crisp from the bank.

 

“He had all this in liquid?” he asks, voice tinged with poorly hidden surprise as he flicks through the notes.

 

“I told you, he was expecting me.”

 

“And he wanted to have it ready for when you inevitably overpowered him and his piteous excuse for a gang, I suppose. Those poor men, I don’t know why he hired them- I’m sure they had wives they’d much rather be spending the evening with.”

 

Arthur shrugs again, still not daring to glance over at his unwelcome companion.

 

“Or perhaps not. I know who I’d rather spend the night with- I’m very proud of you, mon lapin.”

 

The same hand deposits the roll in a delicate blazer pocket, before once again slithering towards Arthur. This time, not his back, but his thigh. It teases the stretch of tight black denim, before fingertips dance up towards his tattered belt. Just as the hand’s heel begins to dig into the space between the Englishman’s legs, he feels the light brush of whitened teeth on his earlobe, and wine-tainted breath on his cheek.

 

“Francis?”

 

_“Oui?”_

 

“Are you about to ask me to do another job?”

 

Francis hums, not pulling any further away from Arthur’s face.

 

“Perhaps.”

 

“Did you come here to ask me because you thought I’d be more likely to say yes since I’m high?”

 

“Of course not. If I needed you to be high, I’d get you high myself- but I don’t.”

 

Arthur sighs. It’s a deep, melancholy sigh, the type that comes straight from the soul Arthur has bared in front of Francis on more than one occasion.

 

“We’ve talked about this, Francis. No more jobs.”

 

“One more,” Francis whines. “One last hurrah.”

 

His neck aches, and he’s loath to do it, but Arthur turns to look at Francis, finding his sultry gaze far too close to his own. The first hand stays in its place, the second rising to cup the soft, pale line of Arthur’s jaw.

 

“Am I not convincing you?”

 

Arthur cocks his eyebrow. Francis smirks.

 

“Let me take you for dinner. Or breakfast, whichever pleases you. We’ll go now, there are some people I’d like for you to meet.”

 

“Not now, Francis.”

 

The grip under his chin tightens.

 

“There are some clean clothes for you in the car, and some wipes so you can wash your face. I’ll take you home once you’ve eaten, and you can sleep then.”

 

“I said _no_ , Francis.”

 

The Frenchman pauses, as if to consider his words, but Arthur knows exactly what he’s about to say.

 

 _“Mon Lapin-_ I’m not giving you a choice.”

 

The hand around his jaw lifts, and Arthur rises to his feet with it. Francis stands beside him, and the mere inches between them in height feels like a foot as he looms with an impossible grace. The other hand moves up to Arthur’s abdomen, before sliding around to settle on the side of his waist. Manicured and moisturised hands show no sign of strain, but Arthur can feel the strength of the Frenchman’s grip as he is guided out of the building as if he was a poor, lost child. Francis pulls the door open, a patronising imitation of chivalry, and practically pushes Arthur out in to the street. The grey, bloodstained t-shirt sits forgotten in the dryer.

 

Parked on the street, directly opposite the laundrette, Francis’ car waits. The polished black body and tinted windows reflect every neon light from the boulevard two streets over. He’s a brave man, Arthur thinks, to leave such a vehicle prone and vulnerable down this little alleyway road, but Francis has plenty enough money to walk into any showroom and leave five minutes later with whichever car takes his fancy- and that’s before the new addition of the roll of notes in his blazer’s inner pocket. Brave and stupid, but the Englishman knew that already.

 

The same flickering ‘Open’ sign reflects in the window of the passenger seat door, backwards but still clearly legible. Arthur tries the handle. It wasn’t lying. He’s stopped bleeding now, just about, but he still smears little red smudges on the cream leather seats. He’ll consider it a silent rebellion, and call it a success. The door slams shut, before Francis settles into the driver’s seat, and closes his own door much more gently. Warm air circles around him, and Arthur finds himself sinking into the plush seats, sleep chasing close behind him. His muscles relax, his eyelids falling once more. He doesn’t watch the road before them as they drive, but he feels every twist, turn, and bump, never falling into a sleep deep enough for him to be unaware of his surroundings. He wishes he did.

 

Francis drives with his hand weighing heavy on Arthur’s thigh.

 

 

* * *

 

 

When they pull up to the restaurant, Arthur’s pallid skin has been cleared of all remnants of the scuffle barring the slow bloom of purple under his eyes and around his nose. Still in the same shoes, jeans, and jacket, he’s now wearing a plain white t-shirt, far cleaner than the white of his shoes. Judging by the silky feel of the pure cotton fabric, and more importantly, the label sewn into the neck, it had cost a significant amount more than Arthur would ever dare pay for a t-shirt. He’s almost tempted to start the bleeding once more, to watch it taint the pristine sheet of white, but he doesn’t. Francis would surely have something to say about it. Despite his quick nap enveloped in the purr of the car’s namesake, he is no more eager to start an argument than before.

 

The sky above their heads is painted a gentle lilac, ribbons of cotton clouds melting into it. The ground beneath their feet is a dehydrated, cracked concrete. Arthur misses the sensation of rain droplets on his skin, he even misses the cold mist that soaks through to the bone. He longs for grass that isn’t yellow, trees that aren’t palms, and beaches that aren’t sandy or packed full of tourists like a tin of sardines. He misses the pills. The two he had knocked back in the laundrette were the last in his pocket, and he’s beginning to feel that all-too familiar withdrawal headache creeping up the back of his neck and into his brain. There’s a bottle, a third of the way full, waiting for him in the mirrored cabinet of his motel bathroom. He’ll get Francis to pay for his first real meal in weeks, be driven home, take two more, then sleep until the next day’s god forsaken sunrise.

 

Neon still hangs over his head. It certainly does little to help the situation. _‘La Petite Chatte’_ , in bright pink, swirling letters. It’s not much of a consolation, but here, they’re not flickering. They clearly make enough money to pay for a decent supply of electricity and upkeep, and not all of it profits from meals served to Americans pretending they have any knowledge whatsoever about fine French cuisine. Arthur is painfully aware. The building itself is low and angular, every inch painted black, and the windows are tinted a similar shade. There are no menus displayed out on the walls, no five-star ratings posted on the doors. If it weren’t for word of mouth, which spreads fast in this town, there would be no reason to believe that this was a restaurant at all- certainly not now, only minutes after sunrise, when even the city’s night owls are beginning to settle down.

 

The pair waltz straight in through the heavy doors, carved wood painted the same ebony as the rest of the building, and bypass the ‘Wait Here to be Seated’ podium. At the back of the room, tucked into the corner behind the bar, sits a single circular booth, magenta velvet seats shining under a dimmed chandelier. Arthur can hardly see it through the cloud of smoke that overtakes the building at all hours, but his feet carry him there regardless, past heavyset men in suits, adorned in more diamond jewellery than the women draped over their laps. The silver glints light the way.

 

The booth could comfortably seat eight, and uncomfortably seat ten, but it’s never been more than just the two of them. At the beginning of his career, Arthur had found himself sat there on more than one occasion each week. He’d never gone hungry, though it had come at a much greater cost than he had initially anticipated. Then, as the jobs became more intense and time consuming, the meals became a weekly affair, then monthly, then even rarer. Still, Arthur had always known where to come if he ever needed to seek counsel with the Frenchman. Needed, never wanted. As such, Arthur nearly has a heart attack when he pulls up to a stop at the booth and, instead of finding it empty and waiting for him, he sees two people already sat there, staring up at him with hungry, expectant eyes.

 

The first has skin so gold and a smile so white that he practically lights up the building, no, the street, all by himself. Speaking of skin, the boy has plenty on show- thighs, collarbones, the slight dip in the centre of his chest. He wears acid wash blue shorts, frayed and ripped, a glittering top that hangs off him, and a white fur coat hanging on his elbows. Long pink nails toy with the plastic stirrer in a sunset-coloured drink, and large hooped earrings shake as the boy cocks his head. Beside him sits his antithesis: White skin, white hair, covered neck to wrist to waist by a black cable knit jumper. Where the first had soft, supple curves, the second is stick-thin, though not to the point of looking sickly. Icy blue eyes contrast orbs of deep amber. One leans forward while the other seems to fold into himself.

 

Around both of their necks, there sits a delicate band of white gold metal decorated with a simple, subtle ring hanging down the front. Arthur had worn one too once. Cold, when it had first wrapped around his freckled skin, but it had soon warmed to the temperature of his flesh. It wasn’t heavy. After a while, he had begun to forget it was even there, the only reminder being when someone wrapped their fingers around it and used it to drag his head down. The paler of the two keeps raising his hand to test the metal. The other puffs his chest out like it’s a symbol of pride. They’re new- green- his replacements, if God would be so forgiving. Arthur wonders if they know.

 

They both shuffle along, one more reluctantly than the other, as Francis slides into the booth. He pulls Arthur down with him by the wrist, sitting between them like a ceasefire zone. Not a word is said. The golden boy stares at Francis. The pale one stares at Arthur. Arthur stares at the floor, and Francis stares at the only waitress on shift, snapping his fingers to get her attention. She struts over, leaning down over the table to take the order. The top few buttons of her blouse are missing, and she’s practically spilling out of her bra. If they were sat behind her, they’d see the bottom of her skirt riding up to her garters.

 

 _“_ _L'habituel. Et du thé, pour le lapin._ Anything more for the two of you?” he asks, turning to the pair. A satisfied smile blooms on his face at the sight of them. Arthur pretends he doesn’t notice. The two boys shake their heads coyly.

 

The waitress nods, and struts back again.

 

“If you’re wondering,” Francis begins.

 

Arthur isn’t wondering. They’ve danced this routine before, enough times to give Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers a damn good run for their money.

 

“I’m not letting you have alcohol, because it’ll do you no good, given the state you’re currently in. After all, I prefer your heart beating than not.”

 

“I doubt that,” Arthur spits under his breath.

 

Francis hears him, Arthur knows he does. But the Frenchman doesn’t react. Instead, he lets his little group wallow in the sound of a crackling gramophone playing a Serge Gainsbourg record somewhere across the room, until the waitress returns with a bottle of vintage red wine, one crystal glass, a plate of marzipan petit fours, and a cup of Indian tea steeped in water so hot, it’s now devoid of any flavour. Arthur holds the cup between two hands, and lets it burn his skin, as Francis begins to speak.

 

“ _Mon Lapin_ , this is who I wanted to introduce you to. Feliciano and Emil.”

 

The golden boy waves first. Emil gives a slight nod to follow.

 

“Which gutter did you drag them out of then?”

 

“Why, aren’t you a little comedian tonight. People would pay good money for this, we’re so lucky to get it for free, don’t you think?” Francis smirks as Feliciano giggles.

 

“Two very interesting stories indeed,” the Frenchman continues after chewing and swallowing one of his sweets, “we shall start with Emil.”

 

“It would appear that our little Icelandic friend is one of the better computer hackers within the state lines, maybe even the country. The ones that are not already working for me, of course. However, just because he’s one of the best, that doesn’t necessarily mean he’s one of the smartest- as evidenced by the fact that he chose our organisation to practise on.

 

“To my surprise, he succeeded. Rather triumphantly, might I add. I would be lying if I said I wasn’t impressed. And naturally, this is the type of person I’d rather have on _my_ side than on anyone else’s. So here he is, with us.”

 

Arthur’s mind flicks back to the man sat at the computer in Francis’ office. Sandy hair, wired framed glasses, sensible shirt and slacks combinations. Every time Arthur has had the misfortune of being summoned to the room, he’s been sat there, fingers typing at a lightning speed. He’s not sure he’s ever seen him blink. If anyone, never mind someone who could be no older than nineteen, broke past the wall around their databases- well, Arthur doesn’t wish to dwell on the consequences. But his conscience won’t let him ignore it.

 

“What about Eduard?” he hums, voice curious and careful rather than challenging.

 

“He’s still got a job, for now. I’m sure Emil will be able to teach him a thing or two, and two heads are always better than one. I’ve seen to it that we won’t deal with a similar situation any time soon. Feliciano, on the other hand, is quite a different story.”

 

Arthur is sure it won’t be all that different. They never are. But he has nothing better to do than to listen.

 

Before Francis has the chance to begin talking, Feliciano leans even closer to him, if such an act is possible, and practically begins to purr.

 

“May I, Francis?”

 

He considers the request for a moment, pouring himself a large glass from the bottle and leaning back into the plush cushions.

 

“Be my guest,” he grins.

 

Feli rearranges himself in his seat as though he’s about to tell a fairytale epic to three children at bedtime. Arthur knows which one he’s rather be listening to.

 

“I was playing poker at one of Francis’ clubs. I didn’t know it belonged to him, and he wasn’t there at the time. Even if he was, I wouldn’t have known who he was. My loss, certainly. I’d played with a few others there before, one of them had invited me to the game that night. A friend of my family, you see. He hadn’t taught me how to play, but he certainly made me a more successful player.

 

“Now, when I got there, I hadn’t noticed anything out of the ordinary. I paid the entry fee, got myself a glass of champagne from the lady on the door, and sat down ready to play. Sometimes you get bad feelings about places, like they’re cursed, and you’re going to lose. But this was one of the nicer clubs I’d had the pleasure of playing in. For a start, it wasn’t in a basement. That’s always a selling point.”

 

Francis huffs, the sound echoing around the inside of the glass as he holds it up to his lips, and practically begins to preen.

 

“I’d like to consider myself a fairly competent player. I win a pot or two from time to time, usually enough to come out of a game with a new pair of shoes, or some more jewelry. But this night was different. I can’t describe what happened, I’m not sure what came over everyone. But my pile grew and grew. Everybody else kept folding, even though they had really good pairs. They certainly would have won if they’d have called. Before I knew it, I had every chip in play. That’s when Francis showed up-”

 

“Let me guess,” Arthur interrupts.

 

“These guys all owe Francis a significant debt. You’re young, pretty- a newcomer on their scene. They offload all their assets onto you under the guise of a simple poker game. They’ve told Francis that they plan to pay it all off that night, and he shows up exactly when they wanted. Then, they tell him that as the holder of all the chips, you’re now the one responsible for the debt. You think that’s not how a debt works, but it is around here. Unlucky. Francis combs through the pot, realises that it’s nowhere near enough to cover the astronomical debt _and_ the interest as well. And then… well, here you are.”

 

The grin on Feliciano’s face falls, the light in his eyes dimming in a second. His lip twitches, as though he’s about to dare challenging Arthur, before Francis steps in. Still balancing the wine glass lazily in one hand, he presses the back of the other to Arthur’s chest to stop the Englishman leaning forward in response.

 

“Now now, Arthur. I think you’re being rather rude to our guest. Feliciano is one of the best poker players I’ve ever had the honour of watching, and I have no doubt that he won those games completely fair and square. He has a winning streak in him- his Grandfather was the patriarch of the Vargas syndicate.”

 

He’d had his suspicions. The boy speaks with the accent and attitude of a child who had spent his entire life on the North American continent, but had never been allowed out of the confines of an Italian ghetto.

 

“Be that as it may,” Arthur smiles, slyly, “but where are they now? Last I heard, dear Nonno was six feet under.”

 

He watches Emil match his smirk out of the corner of his eye as Francis shoots a warning glare at Feliciano. The italian leans back, sipping his drink, and not affording Arthur the honour of his gaze. Arthur doesn’t mind too much.

“That’s not what I brought you all here for. I’d appreciate it if you stayed on topic,” Francis sighs.

 

“What topic?” Emil asks.

 

“There’s a job I need doing, and I think between the three of you, you have all the necessary skills to complete it quickly and cleanly. It shouldn’t be too difficult,” the Frenchman explains, reaching into his pocket and pulling out three sheets of folded paper, handing one to each of the three figures surrounding him. Each one has the same information printed on it.

 

NAME - ALFRED JONES  
ADDRESS - APARTMENT B, 76 VICTORY BOULEVARD  
DEBT - 50,000  
INTEREST AS OF 7/16/89- 32,500  
TOTAL - 82,500

 

Arthur scans the information in an instant, before moving on to the picture that accompanies it. Terrible quality, as if it has been taken directly from security camera footage. Tall, white, with wheat coloured hair. He can’t figure out the man’s body type, each item of clothing horrendously oversized on him. It’s not a lot of information to go off, but he’s worked worse cases.

 

“I don’t recognise his name,” he says, “have we worked with him before?”

 

“No, it was his first time. He seemed pretty nervous about it, I couldn’t really pass up such a glowing opportunity,” Francis answers.

 

“What did he take such a big loan out for?” Emil pipes up.

 

“I’m not sure. Not a house, obviously, which means he’s unlikely to have anything you can take to reimburse me. He certainly won’t have it in cash, he’s nearly doubled the debt. This one has been a long time coming. Arthur, obviously you know how we operate in situations such as these. I’m sure you can show the younger ones the ropes.”

 

“I’ve done cases bigger than this before, _by myself_. I don’t need the help of kids,” the Briton protests, as calmly as he can manage. His headache is still growing by the second, his fingers twitching for a pill, a spliff, anything.

 

“You told me yourself, you wanted this to be your last case. I’m simply trying to make it easier for you, to ease you out of the business slowly. Does that make me a terrible person? It’ll be a shocking transition, I hope you’re aware.”

 

Arthur does nothing to acknowledge him. Francis downs the rest of the glass of wine, a decent half, all in one go.

 

“ _Non,_ I didn’t think so.”

 

Emil pulls at a hangnail. Arthur notices that all of his fingernails are bruised black and blue. Feli seems to brighten again as Francis’ dismissive stare seems to switch from him and back to Arthur.

 

“I want you all at the house before eight o’clock in the morning tomorrow. Arthur, you know how to find it. I shall organise transport for the two of you.” Francis gestures towards Feliciano and Emil.

 

“You will be there. I will hear no excuses. If you’re not there, there will be consequences. You’ll receive a further briefing upon your arrival. Am I clear?”

 

All three of them nod in response- one more enthusiastically than his contemporaries.

 

“Good,” the Frenchman smiles warmly, “then I believe it’s about time we called this session complete. You’ll all require plenty of sleep if you want to complete this job with any degree of success. Feliciano, I shall escort you home- I don’t want you hanging around here until it gets lighter outside. Arthur, Emil, if you speak to the waitress, she’ll organise transport for you both.”

 

Without another word, Francis leaves with his arm wrapped around Feliciano’s waist, and Arthur suddenly remembers the cup of tea in his hands. The liquid within has gone cold without him having taken a sip, but the skin of his palms is still scorched red. He sets it down on the table, instead picking up the abandoned, half full bottle of wine. He takes a swig, winces at the taste, and leaves- much like Francis- without so much as a goodbye. He’ll walk home.

 

 

* * *

 

 

“Come back to bed, Francis,” Feliciano whines from his place in the centre of the mattress, wrapped up in pure white silk sheets, slithers of golden skin poking out between the folds. Francis turns on the ball of his foot, switching his line of sight from the sprawling cityscape outside his window, to the corrupted ingenue lounging on his bed. He may be getting old, but he’s not quite old enough to deny him what he wants just yet. But that doesn’t mean he’s not going to make the boy work for it.

 

“What did I say about interrupting me, _petit oiseau?”_

 

Feliciano hums, shrugging.

 

“Not to?” he suggests.

 

“What did I say would happen?”

 

Feli can’t stop the anticipatory smile that spreads across flush pink, swollen lips.

 

“That you’d gag me if I spoke?”

 

Francis pats the boy’s glossy head of hair, straightening the back where it has been mussed up against the pillow cases, and chuckles warmly.

 

“Well done for remembering, _mon petit poussin_.”

 

The gag in question had been sat on the bedside table since the pair had arrived back at Francis’ home from _La Petite Chatte_. A smooth black rubber ball, with straps of soft pink leather on either side, meeting at the back with a large, polished silver buckle. The ring of metal on metal is deafening as Francis opens the buckle. Feli waits, kneeling in place, and following ever one of the Frenchman’s movements with his eyes.

 

“Open,” he purrs. Feliciano obeys.

 

The gag is large and cumbersome, and the straps pulled tight around his cheeks, cutting into the corners of his mouth. His lips begin to glisten almost instantly, moistened by saliva as he struggles to find a comfortable position for his tongue. Thousands of tiny bumps ghost over his skin in the breeze of Francis’ swift movement as he climbs onto the mattress behind him, placing two gentle hands on each of his shoulder blades. Pressure builds, and Feliciano finds himself succumbing to it, lowering his chest to the bedsheets under Francis’ commanding touch. He locks his fingers together and pushes his arms forward in front of him, his back arching and his hips raising like a stretching cat.

 

Francis’ cock hardens at the sight, skin red and taught again within seconds, despite the already present muscle strain inside his thighs. Using only his middle fingertips, he draws delicate lines down the curves of Feliciano’s soft flesh, watching in delight as the boy’s skin trembles at his touch, droplets of sweat following the tracks he’s laid. His dusky pink hole still sparkles with the remnants of previous efforts, but Francis isn’t cruel. He reaches back over to the nightstand, and picks up the tube of lubrication waiting for him there, before squeezing a tiny amount on to his finger. Pressing it between Feli’s legs, it is swallowed almost instantly, the boy still insatiably hungry for more. When he removes it, it is as wet as the tip of his cock. He places a hand on each of the boy’s hips.

 

Feliciano does nothing short of scream around the gag when Francis thrusts deep into him, the Frenchman’s hip bones smacking against the peach at the top of his thighs. His shoulders tense. He tries to push himself back up to balance on his hands and knees, but finds himself thrown back down to the mattress before he can find his centre of gravity. His legs ache from holding himself up against Francis’ powerful, rhythmic force. He moans at the burn of the stretch, the sensation of loose lube dripping down his skin. His fingers unlock, both hands gripping the sheets for leverage, only for the silk to slip against itself and have him sliding to lay flat on his stomach.

 

When Feli’s weight slips forward underneath him, Francis follows, keeping his cock buried in the soft warmth of the boy as he too throws himself forward. He moves one knee to rest just next to Feliciano’s hip, then the other when he has stabilised himself. Both of his hands find a place on either side of the boy’s head, and he lowers his chest so that it comes within inches of pressing down on his spine. He can feel the heat radiating from that bronze expanse, and grins knowing that Feliciano will feel it even more. His cock swells further, the heat moving from his skin to bury into his abdomen as the pressure there builds to a level far greater than he’s felt before.

 

He pauses suddenly. Feliciano squeaks in surprise, then gasps. Francis feels the textbook clench of muscle around muscle as Feli goes limp with a satisfied moan beneath him. His own pressure releases, and he contributes more white smears to the mess of lube and cum collecting behind the poor, wretched thing’s cheeks. He too collapses, rolling onto his side and pulling the boy’s weight along with him to rest in the cavern of his curved body. His breath heaves.

 

“See how good it can be when you’re just a little bit quieter for a while?” Francis smirks, releasing his grip on Feli’s arms to unbuckle the gag and toss it aside. He watches as the boy’s eyelids flutter shut, content in the warm arms of another, his mind in a blissful stupor.

 

“Tired, _mon petit poussin?_ ”

 

Feliciano hums.

 

“Don’t fall asleep just yet, there’s something I’d like to show you first.”

 

He follows Francis, rising from the bed on shaky feet after a few minutes of catching his breath. The Frenchman hooks his little finger into the ring on the golden collar, and leads the Italian over to the mirror. Three metres tall and five wide, it takes up a significant amount of space of the wall beside the floor-to-ceiling window. From the right angle, someone on the street could see anything. Feli sees the white trail snaking its way down his thighs, sweet periwinkle bruises and sinful red blotches on his skin, burns from where his knees had rubbed against the carpet. Francis disappears behind him for a second. Feli can hear him digging through the wardrobe, but doesn’t watch. It’s not his place to do so.

 

When he returns, he’s carrying a delicate cage of pink leather straps, the same pastel rose as the gag, inset with tiny white diamonds. He holds it up, and lets Feli slip his arms into it, draping the harness over his shoulders. It fits comfortably, naturally- it was custom made for the boy’s figure. Feli continues to study himself, watching as the leather moulds to his contours, as Francis moves back to the bedside table, and pulls a small handgun from the top drawer. One hand cradles Feli’s stomach, as the other places the gun into its place in the holster.

 

“You understand what I’m asking you to do,  _ oui?”  _ he whispers, tongue teasing the space between Feliciano’s neck and ear.

 

The Italian hums in agreement, his own hands moving to encase Francis’ where they rest on his body.

 

“Tell me.”

 

“You want me to keep an eye on Arthur,” he breathes. “You want me to make sure he’s not keeping your money for himself, or giving it to someone else.”

 

“Good slut- there’s a brain in there after all,” Francis chuckles, suddenly moving to slap the top of Feli’s thigh in approval.

 

“Put your hands on the mirror.”

 

Feli does as he says.

 

“Spread your legs.”

 

The boy is well trained already.

 

Francis kneels to the ground, inch by inch, knees sinking into the plush carpet slowly, tantalisingly so. He wraps one hand around each cheek and pulls them apart gently, placing his forehead on Feli’s tailbone.

 

Feli gasps, eyes screwing shut as he feels the wet warmth of Francis’ tongue on his skin.

**Author's Note:**

> None of this would have happened without Ludwiggle73, so you have him to blame/thank.


End file.
